


There Is Nothing Important in This Letter

by MDJensen



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Gen, Steve McGarrett genuinely works on himself, Therapy, letter writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-07-04 10:23:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15839313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MDJensen/pseuds/MDJensen
Summary: Steve writes letters to Danny, to say what he can't say in person: he's struggling. Set during season 8.





	1. Chapter 1

Danno,

First of all, stop freaking out. I know, it’s weird that I’m writing you a letter and your mind is going crazy places, but stop. There’s no bad news. There is nothing important in this letter.

I wanted to tell you that I’m seeing a therapist again. I thought you’d want to know. And I wanted you to know, but I couldn’t picture telling you. He suggested I write to you instead.

That’s all. See? No big deal.

-Steve

 

*

 

Danno,

That was easier than I thought, to be honest with you. You think I like doing things the hard way. Maybe I do sometimes, but not with this. I’m okay with making this easier. It’s not that I don’t want to talk to you about it. But it’s hard.

We’ve talked about this before. It’s hard for me to say when things aren’t going well.

They’re not going bad today or anything, but yeah, it’s been a rough year. A rough couple of years.

-Steve

 

*

 

Danno,

My therapist’s name is Conrad, by the way. He looks a little bit like your dad but if anybody he reminds me of Chin. I think you’d like him.

-Steve

 

*

 

Danno,

Maybe you guessed already, but yes, there was something that made me decide to actually start again.

Last month I had a few bad days in a row. Three days in I started throwing up blood. Yes, I went to the drs for that one and no, it’s nothing serious. You can tear the lining of your throat from throwing up as much as I was, and that’s what happened. (They confirmed with a scope.) The dr said she sees it most in spring breakers. HAH.

But when I saw the blood I’ll admit I was scared. Enough that I didn’t know how to deal with it. That’s where the therapy came in.

Again, I just wanted to tell you.

Now you’re caught up.

-Steve

 

*

 

Danny,

This one is the hard one. I’ve needed to say these things for a while. I’ve said some of them to Conrad but he’s pretty adamant I say them to somebody else. Obviously that was going to be you. I said it a little that one day but I didn’t say enough to get it off my chest. If that makes sense.

I’m scared. Holy shit I’m scared. I know you’ve read the same stats I have. 15 year survival is only about half. I rationalize. Those numbers come from typical patients, people who were already older or who needed a liver because they were sick. That’s not NOT true. But still that was hanging over my head. And now the radiation sickness, and the odds of cancer. I feel like it’s piling on. Like there’s only so much I can ask to be spared from. Only so many bullets I can dodge. I know, you’ve been telling me that for almost eight years. But I’m really starting to feel it.

I’ve been thinking a lot about god. I guess that’s normal. I hope that’s normal. I’ve always believed in something. But I think that belief was tenuous enough I actively tried not to question it. One of very few things I think I’ve never questioned. But now I have to.

I’ve been reading a lot about it. I’ve been talking to Mamo too. I know, I’m a white guy, but I do honestly feel a connection island beliefs anyway. Honestly I think if there’s anything, it’s got to be pretty much all the same thing. I think.

I think what I hate the most is what the fear is doing to the rest of me, though. If I catch religion from this thing it’ll be the only good part. The rest of it’s dragging me down, Danny. I think I’m starting to get a peek inside your head, brother. I can’t stop worrying. About everything. Not just me. You and the kids. Chin and Kono and the new guys. It’s bad. I don’t know. Not always but enough, I find myself expecting worst case scenarios. I always tried to plan for them but I never deep down used to expect them. Now I do.

I feel awful. Is what it comes down to. Up until right this second I don’t think I realized that. I feel awful. It’s not just the physical stuff although let’s be real, being nauseous all the time doesn’t really make anything better. But that I could cope with. I can’t cope with this new thing my mind is doing of just

Sorry. I don’t really know how to describe it.

 

*

 

I had a dream the other night that Kono died. I don’t know why but I was the one that had to tell everyone: Adam, Chin, you. It’s stress, I guess. Like I said. Just piling on. But I’m not exaggerating when I tell you I thought I was going to throw up after that dream. Or have a panic attack or something.

I actually called Kono. Apparently I disturbed the first good night’s sleep she’d gotten in weeks so, oops, but it was good to hear her voice. I didn’t tell her what was going on though. No need to worry her more. Said we caught a bad enough case it rattled me and I just needed to hear from her.

Conrad says he thinks I may be depressed. That is so far beyond anything I ever expected to cope with that I really don’t know what to do.

 

*

 

So it turns out depression is actually pretty common following transplants. Who knew. Something like half of all patients. I guess for me I just coped well enough until the radiation thing added onto it.

Yeah, I’m accepting it, I guess.

No, I’m not, but I’m using the world at least. Getting used to it maybe. The idea that something really is wrong in that way. I’m going on meds. More pills. I’m going to get one of those plastic sort-by-day things.

 

*

 

Danny,

Had Conrad last night. We talked about these letters and he asked if I’d been saying everything I needed to. The answer was, mostly. But there is something I haven’t, and I guess that’s the point of the letters.

So here goes.

Buddy, I need a hug. I need like 500 hugs. Being sick this way is just so isolating. Which didn’t bother me when I was younger, you know. But now it does.

I’m feeling really lonely, Danno. Is that stupid, probably. But that’s still how I’m feeling.

Look, I’m talking about my feelings!

-Steve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure if I'm going anywhere further with this, but I do love my sensitive Steve.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to all who read and commented. A number of you requested a continuation in which Danny actually reads the letters, so here we go! Some of you also wondered if Steve was actually sending the letters at all, which got my muse off on a slightly different path than I originally intended... hope you all enjoy how it works out :)

He finds the envelope one Friday afternoon: an unsealed manila thing, left in the middle of his desk. It’s simply marked _Danno_ , in Steve’s familiar scrawl.

Danny thinks about leaving it for Monday, but something stops him; even Steve is usually professional enough to address official paperwork to _Dect Williams_. (Usually.) This isn’t paperwork, then, so it might be restaurant-related, or maybe not work-related at all. He opens it.

Whatever he was expecting, it wasn’t this: a small stack of ruled paper, dark with black ink handwriting. Letters. It’s a series of letters, written by Steve—written to Danny.

It’s long been drilled into him to get the big picture first. So he does, flipping through before he actually reads; they’re all from Steve, some long, most short, dated from about two months ago up to yesterday.

Danny’s shaking a little now. In the back of his mind he wonders if maybe he should bring these home, read them with a glass of whiskey in someplace he feels more comfortable, safe.

But he sits down at his desk, and reads them there.

*

Eight letters feels more like a hundred flights of stairs by the time Danny finishes; he puts his head in his hands and tries to catch his breath. So, okay. Steve’s not dying, at least not any faster than he was this morning; there’s not actually any new crisis.

Except for the fact that his closest friend is hurting. Except for the fact that Steve McGarrett, super SEAL, has been feeling so crappy and lonely that he’s voluntarily started therapy again. That he’s trying meds. That he and his therapist have, apparently, even been using the D-word.

Danny himself has been dancing the foxtrot with depression pretty much his entire life, but _Steve_?

Well, why the fuck not Steve, honestly. If there’s anyone genetically incapable of catching a break, it’s that guy. Radiation sickness, liver transplant, and that’s only going back two years—

Danny slides the letters back into the envelope, and goes.

*

Steve’s truck is out front, and Junior’s bike is not; that’s pretty much the best case scenario right now, but still Danny briefly entertains the thought of coming back later. He’s tired, too. Maybe it’s nothing quite as serious, but between the restaurant drama and the barely-healed GSW to the chest, he doesn’t feel like he has much to give.

But that’s not acceptable, in the end. Whatever he has, he’ll give to Steve; it’s been that way for years, and it’s hardly the time to stop now.

But Steve himself doesn’t look quite certain as he opens the door. His eyes scan Danny, and then he just slumps; waves Danny inside then plops heavily on the sofa.

“Read ‘em?” he asks. His voice is muffled by the hands over his face.

“Yeah.”

“I dunno why I gave them to you today. I’m not—I’m not in the right place to talk about it, today.”

“Okay. That’s okay.” Danny settles half a cushion away from him. “We don’t gotta do anything you ain’t ready for, babe.”

Steve lifts his head, but doesn’t look over. He nods.

“You got dinner plans?”

He shakes his head.

“Okay. How’d you feel about Indian, maybe something sci-fi on Netflix?”

“I love you, Danno,” Steve croaks, by way of reply.

*

Even after three beers and four episodes of _Black Mirror_ , Steve’s still not ready that night. He’s not ready in the morning, either. Danny knows this because he crashes on the sofa, and wakes in time to meet his friend out on the beach as he comes back from his ritual swim. Steve grins at him as he towel-dries his hair.

“I’m honestly okay, buddy.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Last night helped. But listen, you should go home, have your Saturday. We still painting the foyer tomorrow?”

Danny just grunts, unimpressed and sore from not sleeping in a bed.

As it turns out, though, _we still painting the foyer tomorrow_ is code. Code for, _give me twenty-four hours, and I’ll be ready to talk then_.

*

Sunday afternoon finds Danny and Steve hip-to-hip on a kitchen counter, headachy from paint fumes and sweaty because it’s not worth running the AC. Danny guzzles from his plastic water bottle, grateful for the break.

Of course it’s at this moment that Steve’s emotional wires close, form a circuit, and he drops his damp-haired head against Danny’s shoulder.

“Hey,” Danny murmurs, because that’s how you open a conversation.

“Hey.”

“I been wonderin’. Why didn’t you give me those letters when you wrote ‘em?”

“Wasn’t sure I was gonna give ‘em to you at all,” Steve admits. His head’s heavy on Danny’s shoulder, and he sounds a little out of breath.

“Hey. _Hey_.” He waits for Steve to look up at him. “I’m glad you did. Okay?”

Steve nods. And, not caring about the sweat or the wet paint all over his t-shirt, Danny reaches sideways and hugs him as tightly as he can.

*

It’s not intentional, but that’s how the restaurant becomes Steve’s safe space. There’s a few more episodes of trial and error before Danny realizes this: that he won’t easily open up at his house, or at HQ, but at the restaurant it’s suddenly easier.

Not easy. But easier.

About two weeks later, they’re looking at fonts for the menu when Steve goes quiet. He pulls a paper from his pocket and shoves it at Danny without ceremony.

“Jeez, hey, let a guy leave the room first,” he mumbles, as Danny unfolds the letter on the counter before him.

“Okay, leave,” Danny replies, and Steve does, slinking out of the kitchen into the dining room beyond.

Danny reads:

_Danno,_

_Sometimes I think about when this will be over. I daydream about it. About feeling healthy again. Being who I was before everything happened. I dream about when it will be over. But then that scares me. Because, this will only be over when it’s all over. Right? This will only be over when I’m gone. And I don’t want that I swear. I swear. But I want to feel better and I’m waiting for the day I feel better, and that’s going to be the day I die? And I GENUINELY don’t know if I feel this bad from being sick or the depression or a combination. I don’t know. All I know is I’m tired. All I know is I could get back in bed and get under the covers and stay there for a hundred years._

_-Steve_

Danny folds the letter and slips it in his pocket. He goes and joins Steve, standing with his arms crossed, looking out the window.

“’s the easiest way for you, huh?” he prompts, quietly.

“Yeah.” Then, after a beat: “sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, babe. You do what you gotta do.”

“It isn’t that I don’t want to talk about it. It’s just—really hard for me.”

“I know. Hey. You’re usin’ a workaround, huh? That’s kinda what you’re best at.”

Danny glances over then, and finds Steve smiling a little; he gets an arm around his back, and they stand together a while longer.

*

It gets Danny thinking. Soon after that he goes and buys a composition notebook and a fancy-ass pen, the kind with the miniscule tip and the jet black ink that Steve loves but won’t buy himself, because they’re like $5 each. He stashes it all in the restaurant, where it stays untouched, for a little while.

But not too long after, the time comes; they’re working, exhausted from a case but too wired to go home, when Steve gets that look on his face. Restless and upset and not sure how to mention it.

Danny gets the notebook and the pen, and shoves them in Steve’s hands without forcing eye contact.

“Write it,” he instructs, evenly. “I’ll be out front.”

It takes every iota of patience in his body just to sit in one of the customer booths while, back in the kitchen, Steve’s fighting some kind of battle. But Danny manages. And a few minutes later Steve shuffles out and sinks into the booth across from him.

A torn-out piece of notebook paper skates over the table-top. Steve doesn’t look at Danny, only buries his head in his hands while Danny picks up the letter. And reads:

_Danno,_

_Bad day. Threw up twice. At HQ, then also in the witness’s bathroom. In case you’ve never thrown up in a witness’s bathroom, let me tell you: it’s extremely embarrassing. But I’m getting good at being discrete, I guess._

_I feel a little better now but I still don’t feel great. Ate a banana earlier but I don’t have the appetite for anything else. Frustrating because physically, I’m hungry._

_I saw the psychiatrist and started meds. They’re making me tired, but besides that I don’t notice a difference. Conrad said it’s normal for it to take a few weeks, though._

_-Steve_

And off the page, in real life, Steve makes a quiet huffing sound. “By the way, tell me that you bought this pen, like, specifically for this purpose.”

“And what if I did?”

Steve smiles, almost shyly, and passes the pen back.

*

In the following three weeks this happens three more times. Danny works out that Steve probably has therapy on Wednesdays, both because he’s never at the restaurant on Wednesday nights and also because he’s only ever in the mood for talking on Thursdays or Fridays.

Well, not _talking_. Still writing. Still sending Danny off to another room while he scribbles a half-page letter, which he then brings to Danny in unsteady hands.

Each time, Danny reads the letter. Then he gives Steve a hug, because he needs one but also because reward is the best way of enforcing positive behavior. That’s the script.

And then on the fourth Thursday—about four months since Steve started therapy, and the letters, and about a month since he started writing them semi-in-person—Steve breaks the script. As he loves to do.

They’re in the kitchen; Steve gets that lost puppy look and Danny obediently leaves, goes and gets comfy in a booth in the main dining room.

Less than a minute later the seat dips. Steve settles beside him, holding the pen and the notebook, open to a blank page. Danny looks up.

Steve is _blushing_. Like, rose red, freckles-standing-out, maybe-about-to-smoke-from-his-ears blushing.

It should be funny. But it is _not fucking funny_.

“Stevie?” Danny prompts.

Steve says nothing. Just slaps the notebook on the table and clicks open the pen, doodling a tight, loopy shape, like a bunch of cursive l’s all in a row. Slowly the line veers. It meets back up with itself, forming a flower, maybe, or an exploding cloud.

Inside the restaurant, the only noise is pen on paper; outside, only traffic.

“The, um,” Steve says, drawing dots now. “My, uh. My stomach’s been doing better.”

“Okay,” Danny replies, evenly. “That’s good.”

“Yeah, the shrink said the depression meds might have been why it got worse again, when it had been getting better, you know, radiation-wise.” He’s making another loopy thing now.

“Okay. They still makin’ you tired?”

“Yeah, but I can live with that.”

“Are they, y’know—helping?”

The tip of Steve’s pen breaks away from its spiral, forms a larger loop that meanderingly becomes a cursive capital J. Steve considers it a moment before writing, in perfect script, _January_.

“I think they might be, yeah,” he says. Then writes, _February, March, April_.

“All the negative thoughts are still there, I guess, but it’s getting easier to tamp down on them. It’s just—it’s still a challenge to process the actual—the actual depression itself, y’know?”

“Sure.”

“Like I said, man: I never, I mean never, saw that one coming.”

“You’ve been to hell and back, babe, like, fifteen different times.”

“Which is why it’s so funny to me, that this is what finally broke the camel, y’know?”

“Broke the camel’s back,” Danny corrects, “not the whole fucking thing.”

Steve’s written _May, June, July_ , but hasn’t gone any further with that; instead he’s writing capital J’s, again and again. One seems to come out particularly to his liking, and he adds to either side of it, forming his signature: _Steven J. McGarrett_. Then he goes back to the little abstract loops.

“I never actually thanked you, for letting me get in on this. The restaurant.”

“You don’t have to thank me, Steve. You’ve put in as much as I have.”

“Yeah, but it was your idea first. I forced my way in.”

“Steven. Babe. You force your way in everywhere.”

Steve laughs, lightly. On the paper, near the lefthand margin, he’s begun sketching something; it’s objectively awful, and Danny’s worried he’s going to have to pull the old parent trick of _I love it, can you tell me about it?_ when Steve mercifully labels the blobby thing _Eddie_.

“Hey.” Danny twists a little to get a hand on Steve’s back. “When I told you about the restaurant. When you asked me to call it Steve’s. Be honest with me: did you really think I’d forget about you? If I left Five-0?”

Steve’s adding a water dish by Eddie’s paws now. “Not in those terms.”

“In what terms, then?”

“I don’t honestly know.”

Then he puts down the pen.

“You know, I never used to get lonely. Never. Not even when I was a kid. I had plenty of friends, but I was never unhappy alone. Now, if you’re not around, or Junior, or Lou—I get so _stupidly_ lonely, I feel like I could—just—just—fucking _cry_ , man. Shit, sometimes even when there is somebody around, I—I just—feel so fucking _alone_.”

Under Danny’s hand, Steve is shaking. Danny doesn’t waste any more time, just shifts himself sideways in the booth and wraps both arms around Steve’s shoulders. Pulls him down until his head comes to rest in the crook of Danny’s neck. Little by little Steve gives up his weight, lies boneless against Danny’s chest; it’s overwarm and a little claustrophobic but Danny doesn’t care.

Steve sighs against his neck.

Danny’s not entirely sure when they cross the line between _hugging_ and _holding_ , but they definitely do cross it—by a solid few minutes at least, not to mention some back scratching and maybe a forehead kiss.

When Steve finally lets go he doesn’t look up. Instead he grabs his pen again, and draws a long, narrow tornado. At least he’s not shaking anymore. But he doesn’t seem to feel all that much better and, yeah, Danny had kind of assumed he would.

“I know I said it before,” Danny begins, quietly, “but I’m glad you started givin’ me the letters. Really.”

“It helped writing them, even just like a journal.” Steve’s voice is kind of hoarse. “But it does help more, now that you’re reading them.”

“Hey. _Whenever_ , okay, babe?” For a moment Danny feels like he’s the one that needs to doodle while he talks, but he pushes past it. “I mean, lonely—lonely is just about the worst feeling you can feel, and if I can ever help you not feel that way, I want to.”

Steve only nods.

“Let’s wrap up here for the night, okay? You wanna crash with me?”

Steve clears his throat. “Junior could feed Eddie, but—” He trails off.

“Oh. But you wanna see him? You’re actually cute sometimes, Steven.”

That by-now-familiar blush starts creeping up Steve’s neck.

“Okay, c’mon. I’m crashin’ with you. No, don’t argue. You’re my best friend, okay, and I can’t fix, like, any of the shit you’re going through. But I can watch your Netflix and sleep on your sofa. C’mon. Let’s go see Eddie.”

Steve doesn’t argue. He doesn’t talk at all, in fact, just slips from the booth so that Danny can get out as well.

“Ready?”

There’s a moment’s hesitation; then Steve collects his notebook and pen and holds them close, flush against his belly.

“Ready,” he says.


End file.
